Troubadour
by l0chn3ss
Summary: Resbang 2015- A bard tells a tale of the fickle heart in a time where love is far more difficult than fighting dragons.
1. The Troubadour

_**Resbang 2015 with artist VictoriaPyrrhi**_

Welcome to the fic you never asked for! First and foremost it's important to say right here right now that **this is not intended to be a heavy fic nor one to be taken seriously**. There are some **offensive language and controversial topics** so if you are fainthearted, this is not the fic for you. Like at all. This fic was written for shits and giggles, and for me to take time off and dive into something funny. I understand if you don't find the same things to be humorous or even very gruesome. It's ok.

Many many thanks to Julie, Alex, and Jeb for betaing through the early stages of the mess. A huuugggeee huge shout out to Julie for helping me plot through the stories. Additional thanks to Rose, Ash, and once again the MVP Julie for staying with me through wild nights and sin.

Art can be found on the Resbang Masterpost since ffnet is terribad at outside links; it's a lovely pinterest board with a few pictures and quotes from the stories within this fic. It's super creative and I started cackling when I first saw it. Give the artist some love y'all~

 ** _Triggers:_**

Smut, Angst, Major Character Death(s), Cursing, Actual VooDoo Cursing, Personified Inanimate Characters, Debauchery, Defecation, No Sign of Holy Water To Quench Thirst, Food Kink, Vulgar Language, Violence

Note that the smut is never between two people, I'm not about that life.

 _ **More miscellaneous A/N:**_

Wes is the Dumbledore of this universe

If you think something is an innuendo and you're wondering if I did that on purpose, 90% of the time you're not wrong

I hope you still love me after this and if you don't then I understand completely

There's no SoMa in this fanfiction they are just friends but you know that's not true

 _ **Last warning:**_

 _If you're reading this and you're easily offended by sexual references and questionable activity then this isn't the fic for you and this is not a reflection of my serious fanfictions; this is crack out of my ass_

* * *

 _ **Summary:**_ _A bard tells a tale of the fickle heart in a time where love is far more difficult than fighting dragons. He speaks of a woman and her porcelain soul, crushed by none other than a man and his rolling spirit's selfish desires. He chuckles a legend of another and her loneliness, and a boy and his ivory tune. He sings of a story as ancient as the red, painted caves, a journey of the most devilish of powers and how they loved themselves far greater than another. He whispers the hymn of a boy and the godless nights he spends with nothing more than his hand, and then how he comes to experience something more. He explains of a girl stuck in her wanderlust for new sights and wonder, and her cousin who chases her until she reaches her own end with her own lust sated. He laughs for a beat about a girl who gives herself to the forest in her journey for her happiness. And finally, he tells about how the sun wanted the moon and so much more- how they all wanted so much more._

* * *

The bard stepped into the tavern.

As the sun was setting behind him, he paused for a moment to smile at his new location. It was shabby to say the least, but it also meant that the occupants would be loose with their coin. Or that's what he'd hoped once night had settled and their apple juice lit their bellies.

Surely.

He signaled for his troop to move forward, taking the first step, knowing that they would follow him. And they did, though they glanced around warily, anxiously whispering amongst themselves as they clutched their instruments tighter against their bodies, wondering just what went through Wes's mind as he chose this particular spot for their performance.

The town of Pelopina was a wreckage, so naturally, their leader was drawn to it. He seemed to enjoy it even though he was of nobility- said it had character, to which the harpist groaned. It was worrisome how merrily he seemed to stroll down the town just moments before, his face bright enough to make up for the dark shadows that loomed behind its corners. He stopped once at what seemed to be a bazaar, weaving through the crowd as if he were a local, glancing at each booth with purpose until he found what he was looking for.

But when he reached for his purse, it was gone. Unfazed, he smiled to himself, wishing the thief well for it was a poorly made accessory from Juniset anyway. There was nothing inside except for perhaps 2 Ruu, just enough for a meal. His hand recovered smoothly, continuing on past the empty space and toward the folds of his sleeve of his other arm, pulling out 5 Dia from the folds of the cuff.

After he came back to meet his company, he held up his purchase- a lute string- and they flocked to his side, checking for injuries. Wes laughed as they found none, pocketed his spoil of war, and then picked up his satchel. Although they were still hesitant, especially the musician who refused to pick up his shawn for quite some time, Wes assured them that he'd already made prior arrangements and that the tavern was much more secure than the streets of Pelopina.

Certainly he was right about one thing- no one in their right mind would rob a building that already looked like it was in shambles. There were other places where they could perform, places where they had profit- and maybe a stage, noted the drummer. Perhaps even a place that looked like it had running water and customers other than rats.

But they trusted him, because everything he touched turned to gold.

Wes had a way of working, one that not many others could bear to follow once they learned of the risks he would take and how he seemed to walk on the line between Tartarus and the Fields of Elysium.

All for good sport, he said.

The troop's members changed every few months because their leader would wear down their patience and tolerance faster than they could realize what a mess they had gotten themselves into. He would take risks greater than what they could afford and often times the benefits weren't worth the trouble. They found themselves in positions where their nights looked bleak sometimes, but Wes was always sanguine.

What was life if they lived on the safer path, he said.

Westerdore was truly a noble with too much time on his hands and no where to throw his attention to. Where else could he turn but the streets that filled him with curiosity? With an insatiable wanderlust, he meandered around the country with his group of musicians, living off of their performances and a bag of emergency funds that was worth far more than each of the towns were on their own. Rich people were terrifying, noted a new, poorer recruit from the troop.

The group flinched at the clink of metal and slurping food. The patrons of the tavern were another breed of terrifying, their shady looks causing the drummer Kilik to walk a little faster. But Wes was hardly bothered at his audience, greeting the owners merrily with a reminder of his reservations, prompting them to usher him towards the fireplace where a small tin can was placed, offering it in case they didn't have one of their own. He thanked them and set his bag down behind him. As the rest of his friends tuned their instruments, he readjusted the strings on his vielle, light fingers twisting the knobs on top while his other hand plucked the instrument.

Perfect.

The harpist Harvar sat down first, nodding to Wes as the latter was tuning his lute for later. Harvar started with a strum of a chord, capturing the entire tavern's attention instantly with the first note. As he continued to play, the rest of his group joined in one by one. The cornemuse and the drum were the last to begin while Wes had still been fiddling with the lute. He smiled to himself at the stories he had prepared for the night, hoping that the rest of the squad would think so too. At the end of his thought, he picked up the vielle and its bow, combining his music with the melody already floating in the air.

As it continued, the customers returned to their meals, pleased with their night. More people from the streets were drawn into the building at the sound of the instruments and in no time at all, the seats were all filled. A jovial atmosphere settled and the owners' faces were bright with excitement and energy. They hadn't seen such life in their establishment in months and they looked to the leader of the group with wonder. Wes was as incredible as the rumors told. With a tambourine strapped to his leg and a grin plastered on his face, he carved yet another successful night where all seemed hopeless.

Kilik exchanged looked with Harvar and simultaneously they picked up the pace, exhilaration shining in their eyes. It was their moment of release, the band itself being a catharsis for their stuffy lives. Once before, they had traveled together aimlessly until they came across Wes, who was an acquaintance at the time. He was much more wild then; the presence of two equally bored but cautious nobles became his impulse control. Still, being as close as brothers, not a word needed to be uttered for them to speed forward. All was fun and game as their leader snapped at their heels with his own quickened song. Hearty laughter boomed around them.

Eventually, the crowd stretched in front of them switched patrons and a new set of meals were placed in front of them. And again. Harvar was the first to hear the distinct tapping of Wes' heel, changing his strumming to one he played every night at every performance, alerting the rest of the troop.

Then the music crawled to a slow tune, the vielle stopping entirely. That seemed to capture the audience's attention, and they looked to the corner with expectation. Wes picked up the lute, setting his other instrument down in its place, strumming it softly. Once he cleared his throat, the tavern hushed.

And then he began.

 _There are many tales that I've heard_

 _But today I speak of songs from the future_

 _Of the distant storms that bring new skies._

 _I start with a tale that breaks more wind than a hurricane_

 _So hold onto your seats for though they may be unconventional_

 _Their love is real as their betrayal._

 _In another place sits a sound as pure as ivory cores_

 _And although the heart is pristine_

 _A beloved melody will always come to an end._

 _There is a story that never had a chance to begin_

 _Despite their efforts there are some things that don't belong_

 _And there are other things that serve as halves for a whole._

 _I tell of a journey, one familiar as the bones of the pheasant you gnaw_

 _You might know of the feeling well as you grind the morsel between your teeth_

 _Well, you aren't the only one with an affinity for poultry._

 _There are others who can't let go of their lonely hearts_

 _With lust comes sin as two girls of the same blood fall_

 _They should have known that all they touched went to ruin._

 _In an attempt for happiness one more reaches for the light_

 _But what she found instead was another painful reminder_

 _Of why there was no such thing as joy._

 _All of these tragedies end with a love_

 _That should have never come to be_

 _And yet the sun still chases after the moon._

 _Then again, what do I know?_

 _For I am only a mere Troubadour_

 _And now, I welcome you to death's door._

 _(Because surely you'll die laughing)_

 _He started on the first chapter of sin._


	2. Dear Pristine Celestine pt 1

They grew up together, lost in love with others, but still, a strong connection formed between them. In a way, they became unlikely friends through a mutual interest. Both were devoted to the seats that warmed their bottoms when no one else could provide them with comfort. Although others looked at them with distaste, Stein and Marie couldn't care less. They were already with the ones who could carry them, accept them, love them for who they were. Yes, they were indeed butt buddies for they loved to sit on their furniture; nothing else held the same satisfaction as a toilet and a rolling office chair, Celestine and Romario.

Marie stroked the rim of her toilet's seat, feeling the cool of the ceramics under her fingers as she squeezed another pile into the pool already collecting in Celestine's bowl. She groaned as another wave started to probe her bottom, knowing that her toilet would be there to ease her pain as she tried again to relieve herself of the discomfort. Celestine was really the only one who she could rely on, the only one who would take her shit without complaint. Truly the only one for Marie.

Meanwhile in the room next door, Stein pushed off from the ground with a leg, enjoying the rush that came when Romanio bent forwards, taking Stein wherever he needed to go. He rode Romanio with its neck between his legs, often thrusting forward just enough to make it the extra inch if they couldn't reach their destination. Stein's soft, squishy tush was more than enough for Romario as it shaped around the curve of each buttock, just plenty to keep Romario going.

But it couldn't help but to be envious of Celestine's partner Marie. How lucky did the toilet have to be to have such a glorious bottom be devoted to it every time of the day, coming to it when she needs it and not out of laziness, as Stein does?. Their relationship was beautiful from afar, one of mutual respect and of pure devotion. Romario sighed as Stein's butt rubbed into its cushion again; it dat Mjolnir ass just wasn't like this clingy man that stuck to it like rice to chopsticks.

No, the rolling chair shouldn't complain, shouldn't covet another bottom and break such a pristine love, but still it watched in envy as the years passed and as Marie and Celestine continued to be happy, whereas Stein and Romario continued to partake in an unfair power dynamic connection. It squeaked- the joint that held the seat to the leg was worn and tired- choosing to wait for the right time.


	3. Dear Pristine Celestine pt 2

When the right time did come, Stein had been away in Marie's room, ruffling through her closet in search of plumbing tools that would work for Stein's experiments. The chair was waiting calmly outside for Stein's return, but at the same time, it was watching for its chance. When Stein emerged from the clothes wearing nothing but a leopard print leotard, Romario gagged, fearful of what it meant for their relationship as Stein pushed the door open, proud of his new outfit.

They both had to admit that the fabric did wonders to tone and shape Stein's body, latching to every curve in every direction as Stein walked closer and closer. But Romario backed away in disgust at the view in the front, how vile and disturbing it looked when the leotard squeezed against—

It was just disgusting.

Romario didn't test out the firm-looking ass that evening. It was too busy plotting its mutiny, it took enough of Stein's chasm of doom (the crack of the ass) for too long.

Marie heard the chair roll forward, nudging her knee as she turned from the frying pan. It was a rare occasion to see that the chair was separated from Stein for once, knowing that the man she was in a domestic relationship with did not part with Romario for more than fifteen minutes at a time. She leaned closer to listen to what it had to say, and what she heard was stomach clenching, even more than what she was used to. How dare Stein look through her clothes without permission! And how dare he wear her most treasured possession! It was war.

She shook with fury, her face red and her lips squeezed in a line. Marie nodded to the chair, thanking it for the new information while reaching for the drawer to her left. Her hand pulled out a small vial, one that she used to make her poops flow more easily, squeezing the entire contents into the pan as she stirred it up without a word. It was what Stein—what the wild man deserved, Marie believed. And the chair backed away with a sneer, never taking its eyes off of Marie's butt as it did.

That night, Stein felt an odd sensation in his ass, one he wasn't accustomed to but also one that Marie had described so often before when they were small children. He jumped out of bed, running directly to his bathroom but stopping before he reached the door. The pain in his stomach made him recalculated his plan after realizing that he didn't have enough toilet paper for the destruction he was about to create. Instead, he jumped to Marie's bathroom, knowing that Celestine would be more than happy to take his shit as generous as a toilet could be. He pulled down the leotard to his knees and sat on the rim, relieving himself of the poop as he sighed into the night.

He thought that his fumes were bad as he spread his legs, the leotard dropping to his hairy ankles. Stein had taken a deep breath in to refill the space that he'd lost when he was squeezing out the lumps of nasty, the stench absorbing into his lungs just as they would with cigarette smoke. For good measure, he took another wiff of the dung in the bowl, sticking his nose right in between his thighs. The poor toilet was the last thing on his mind when he flushed, the rumblies shaking his sack as a maelstrom formed under him, dragging the dirty ships down to the depths of the pipes. It was like he was born anew. The seat vibrated and moved and _oh lord_ it was incredible.

Stein loved how it called to him and he called back, "Yasssss baby purr for me!"

And it was all it took for Marie to jolt up in the next room, to stomp into the bathroom, to screech in horror at the sight before her. There was Stein, cheating with her Celestine. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, causing the porcelain to glow faintly, but then the ethereal light disappeared along with the look of pleasure on Stein's face.

He knew he was dead, that the grim reaper had come for him then.

She screamed.

She fought.

She cried.

How could Celestine abandon her for another man? They were connected from the time Marie was potty trained, from the very beginning when she believed men would never accept her and that Celestine was the one she would marry. It was supposed to be their happily ever after, together.

Now, they were through.

With stormy eyes, she summoned Romario who had been snickering, concealed by the shadows in the hallway. The chair rolled to her, and she mounted it, smack smack smacking dat Mjolnir ass against the cushions. Marie gave her toilet one more look, heartbreak clear on her face, and left with Romario, leaving the house all together. She was finally seeing the world, leaving her old one behind her.

It was over for them, and as for Stein? He got the shitty end of the deal.

His stench was strong enough to make paint peel, far too much for one innocent toilet to handle on its own. Never had Celestine hurt its one true Marie. Never in all its life had it given her Marie such betrayal. The weight of Celestine's sins crashed onto it, splitting the toilet into two and it fell to the cold ground, water squirting every which way.

It was the end for the poor pristine Celestine while Stein was left to pick up the broken pieces.


	4. Interlude

Wes paused, smiling at the confused faces around him, giggling silently to himself as he heard Kilik's hand smack his forehead while he kept the beat. At the chaos, he made a great show in calling the attention back to himself with a wide armed strum. With a snort, he patted the air, calming the crowd down before switching to another story, something more innocent than his strong opening.

Harvar noted it was to keep his audience interested, making them stay for a longer time because of curiosity. A marketing strategy, though judging from the emptiness of the can in front of them, they would need more than a good hook to reel in the big fishes.

Wes moved onto to his next tale.


	5. White to Black pt 1

New beginnings weren't always a good thing, but with Soul at her side, Natasha believed that they could overcome anything.

She was his anchor in many ways- something that couldn't be budged without a bit of force and something that had always tethered him to reality. They grew up together, bound to one another since the beginning of time. Before he could walk, Soul was sat in front of Natasha. And from the moment that he touched her smooth ivory, she knew that he would be the one that she would spend the rest of her life with.

Only he knew every one of her curves and unlocked every key in her body. Only her Soul could coax her body to create pure music and use her to her fullest potential. In return, she offered her company through the worst of his days and the best of his nights. Natasha was his favorite confidant and his greatest ally, so once he decided to finally move away from home, she was the one to leave with him.

Everything in their future was laid out for them. They would get an apartment together in the city, one over a bakery where Soul could wake up to the smell of fresh bread and warmth every morning. He would return to her in a few minutes after he woke up and then they would watch the sunrise become midday from their window as Soul sipped from the coffee that sat on top of Natasha. After he left to do what he needed to outside of their walls, they would spend the night together as close as an instrument and her musician could.

The one thing she didn't account for was their first fight.

Soul hadn't been paying attention. That was the first offense. He'd never neglected to give Natasha attention before, why now? It was almost like he was distracted by something. But Soul, what could be more beautiful than the lemon scented wood polish that coated her skin? What could have stolen his gaze from his captivating instrument?

When the movers lowered Natasha from her place in the truck, Soul had been looking at the bakery- at the vile little girl in an apron behind the counter surrounded by half-baked whole wheat bread. The disgusting smile on his face wasn't for his one true piano but for that wench who'd caught his eye and made the mistake of waving to him. Natasha's hood vibrated, seething with rage when Soul's face became blotched in the same red that marked his cheeks in sickness. He didn't know the girl; she didn't deserve his attention nor this human reaction. That was the second offense.

And the third?

He had the nerve to wave back, and when he did, Natasha slipped from his hand, landing with a crash onto the asphalt while the other workers failed to support her body. Her strings from inside shifted, and she swears the mahogany on her legs were scratched. She let out a scream of agony, the noise sounding like cackling hell spawn had crawled through the molten cracks of the earth, their nails scraping on the ground as they pulled themselves up from the depths.

Something broke within her that day. Call it the flood gates or the foundation of her sweetness, but a new intense sensation budded in her, planting the seed of jealousy that tainted her ivory with ebony. The discord rang out, merging with Natasha's cry.

But he didn't react to it until the girl covered and her silent gasp, following the trail of her eyes and realizing the source of her surprise. He wasn't worried, asking the hired help to lift the piano again and then they made their way upstairs, resting Natasha next to the window where she nursed her own wounds alone.


	6. White to Black pt 2

Soul was rarely home now.

Compared to the days before his move, he hardly paid any attention to his musical hobbies now, didn't touch Natasha for days in a row. She was starved for attention, but she waited patiently for the nights when he did come back to her, composing love songs on her keyboard until dawn. And once the sun just peeked over the horizon, Soul ran out of the door as if he couldn't get away from Natasha fast enough.

Where did he go, you ask? Probably to the bitch from downstairs, the same one stuffing Soul's face with too many carbs. Probably ruining his perfect skin and his slender fingers. Probably convincing him to stay with her longer and away from home.

But it was alright… right?

At those ballads were for Natasha… weren't they?

The dust on her once sparkling wood gathered as the weeks passed by and as the days grew colder. In the dark of the night, Soul whispered to her in the way that he used to. Bae, you sound off, he said. But Natasha didn't want to hear that from him. Everything was fine, she believed as Soul tapped a few of her keys. It will be if she had Soul by her side.

One day, he didn't come back for the night at all. Or the night after that. Or the night after that, until one day, the front door swung open, and in came the girl from the bakery after him.

He brought her home into their space.

When his fingers touched Natasha, the music the created was different. A new source of inspiration was found under his fingertips, leaving her feeling wretched inside. So this was what his songs were about- who the songs were for.

They weren't for Natasha.

Her noise became too much for her to bear, knowing that her music that she created with Soul never meant to be her's. There was pain in her wood and heartbreak in her song, but Soul didn't notice at all. He was too busy glancing at the baker's face, smiling at her reaction as she closed her eyes, lost in the gentle melody that sang for her.

It was unfair.

As the girl leaned closer into Soul's shoulder, dipping her head into the crook of his neck, Natasha slammed the hood of her keys onto his hands, closing off herself and her concern for Soul as he yelped. She could care less about the one who left her alone for all those weeks, for all those lonely nights with nothing else than the dim light from the curtains to keep her company as dust swirled in the glow. He had the other girl to worry about his precious fingers and his perfect, sensitive skin now. He didn't need her. And as the one by his side doted over the cry baby of a boy, Natasha had never been so offended at such an unsightly human.

This could be us, she thought. But Soul, you playing.

They left together again, hand-in-hand as the front door clicked behind them. He took more than just a duffle bag thing time, rubbing salt into the wound as he slung a backpack full of toiletries onto his shoulders, squeezing a lemon over the cut as he held another bag of perishable food in another hand.

This isn't for fucking real, she thought.

It couldn't be real.

 _It couldn't._

But it became a nightmare when Soul returned one night after another lunar cycle had passed with a newspaper clipping that he placed onto her dusty hood. He ran into his room without giving Natasha a second thought, rummaging through loudly for who knows what. More than curious, she read the side that was pressed against her.

It was a picture of their apartment- no, of the bakery downstairs. In the headlines, it read that the baker's daughter had single handedly saved her family's company and was offered a place among the world's most successful patissieres.

In France.

No doubt that Soul would go with her, back to his home country that he escaped from with Natasha. They'd gone through so much, only for Soul to throw everything away for a girl that he'd only known for a year.

She saw red, but read on to see that the inspiration of the pastry that turned the business all around was inspired by a precious friend of the baker's daughter who stuck by her through all her restless nights and soothed her worries. The girl found a spark one night when that person played her a song, and with that song came her love for baking again. And a love for someone too.

Despicable.

Natasha vibrated as Soul came back out of his room, holding something up that vaguely resembled a miniature notebook in one hand and yet a new bag on his back. His sudden approach disturbed the air enough to rip the clipping off from Natasha, and as he bent down underneath her to retrieve it, the pent up rage and frustration that Natasha held within her finally broke.

It broke her.

Her legs gave out as she crashed into the ground below her, knowing well where Soul was, knowing well that the weight would crush him. She'd already given up on her life, finding no will to live after Soul had forgotten her in favor of another. It was like this for a long time and she was no more than a shell of what she used to be. But Natasha remembered the vows that she took with Soul when he was just learning to walk.

Till death do us part.

She loved Soul more than anything else in the world- he was more precious to her than her own lemon scented finish that he used to apply on her as they made love to one another. But that was in the past, she reminded herself. Natasha's front legs caught herself before she could crush Soul, saving him in the only way she could before she collapsed entirely from the weight of her sins.

Hurry, she groaned out. Her strings from within were twisted and sounded on their own, broken from the destruction of her back legs. She was beyond repair now, but at least she could save Soul. And at least he would remember her this way.

Or so she thought.

The girl appeared again, scrambling to Soul's side and tugging him away from Natasha while he was frozen from shock. He was leaving her again, pulled from the wreckage by the same siren that was leading him to his utter demise. Natasha let out one last hum, her chords broken and her bitterness pouring from her dusty shell. Her knobs twisted within.

She spat out, "Soul…. you've abandoned me again…"

But he didn't hear her at all. Instead, he was fixated on the witch still holding onto his hand. If anything, he was more grateful towards the human than his real savior.

"Soul why do you never notice me, you just always... go back to... this bitch who had a lot to say about me last night, Maka, what's good."

And with that, Natasha's last note ended, and she spontaneously combusted because what else do you do when the love of your life was snatched from you?

This piano's in paino.


	7. Interlube

A member of the audience smacked her husband's hand with the back of her spoon, silently glaring at him to pay more attention to the stories rather than stuffing his face with pig. Kilik tried to keep the slow beat of the song so that Wes' voice wasn't overpowered by the instruments but at the sight of the woman hitting her husband once more, he was itching to play a little something more wild and upbeat. He made a small face to Harvar who only rolled his eyes, watching Wes for the next cue.


	8. A Stain Online pt 1

There was no such thing as perfection in the world.

They could imitate you but they could never replicate you, she thought, tilting her head up at the sky as she grunted. Arachne had been the queen of loneliness, sitting on a throne that represented both purity and sin in the same package. Although it had an uncanny resemblance to Celestine, a character from distant times, a few from her mansion knew that Arachne would rather dwell on the ghosts from legends than to move forward to make new ones. It was an awful habit, but she was too busy lingering on the "what if"s to notice her descent.

She continued to scroll through her instagram, finding little to no pleasure in watching her numbers rise above the others on her feed. Plastered with filters and hashtags, her selfie on her toilet gained followers much faster than any outdoorsy photo could ever manage. It wasn't her fault that the light from the window and the reflective white walls gave her face a natural shine, or the perfect angle she achieved that both hid the ceramic and her half smeared lipstick on the left side of her lip. Yet all of this combined never caught the attention of the famed instagramer Excalibur, her idol. Her desires.

He was beautiful in all of the pictures he'd posted, effortlessly gaining thousands and thousands of fans a day and always responding to each of the comments he received—which was close to none considering his eccentric personality. Still, Arachne's thirst was too much to contain and she found herself typing yet another comment about Excalibur's glorious pecs and shimmering abs while ignoring his teeny, pointed nipples.

A primal growl from her bowels caused her fingers to pause for a split second, but she pushed on, gritting her teeth through the pressure and willing her fingers to keep moving. The bathroom fan distracted her abdominal pain well enough as she squeezed her eyes shut, finishing her final words blind before hitting the enter key on her touch screen. It was in that moment that a log dropped into the depths beneath her and the cold splash hit her folds. She jumped, twisting her face in disgust as she shook her bottom to relieve herself of some of the droplets.

It was almost as horrible as how Excalibur never gave her a follow back or commented on her own photos. A like was all it would have taken! Wasn't she a rising star like he? What good were all her followers if they could not capture the attention of her most loved one. It was complete shit. They were all like the shit that fell beneath her cavern and the smear left on the white surface.

All of the thousands of likes and comments, and yet none of them truly meant anything unless it came from Excalibur.

He was like a plague in her kingdom and a menace running rampant in her catacombs. Arachne would have even described him as the poop clogged in the plumbing downstairs, left from when Shaula had visited her last. But she still loved him, kept him in her heart as she would with a terminated youtube account that she was still subscribed to. At least he still commented back within the hour of her posting. At least she could still talk to him that way.

She unlocked her iphone while she clutched her stomach, glancing at the wifi's icon in the top left corner and waiting for the connection to be established. Maybe he's already responded, she wished silently. Excalibur was as unpredictable as her farting spells, so perhaps she struck gold by commenting five seconds after he posted his shirtless selfie.

A few quick taps later, and she was back on his profile, caressing the thumbnail quickly before opening the comments. Her heart fluttered as she found that there were four comments beneath his photo, one belonging to her and the other three belonging to her one and only. However, what she read next made her bowels twist more than diarrhea.


	9. A Stain Online pt 2

Nothing else was out of place other than the terrible mistake that Arachne couldn't blame on other than herself.

Excalibur had responded with a confirmation of his beauty, going off on a tangent about his young pussy covered by his shoulder and how he'd tried to include Julianna in the shot, only for his swollen muscles to allow no such thing. He followed up with an onslaught of emojis that documented his embarrassment for his own body—but not really. But then he made a comment reminding Arachne about his asexuality, how he was saving his body for himself because only he could handle himself.

It confused her.

Why did he make such an unnecessary comment? Was it to remind her of her own shame and thirst for those who couldn't quench her? He'd already said such close to eighteen weeks when he'd posted his sword in response to a reply that belittled his junior.

Arachne scrolled up instead, to reread his initial reply, only to witness the worst possible thing she could have posted online onto the interwebs. Throwing her phone onto the tiles, she let out a sob from her rear end, mourning the loss of her carefully constructed online persona. She didn't have time to delete the comment; everyone had already seen it and Excalibur had already responded to it. There was also a track record for her comments on all the other posts, causing it to be strange if she hadn't commented.

Her trail of thought continued, her overthinking taking over her entire system and her butthole clenching in response to her stress. The pipes were getting backed up, she thought absentmindedly as the fumes escaped from between her thighs. From the corner of her eye, she realized that her iphone's screen was cracked from the impact, the icing on the top of her already horrible morning. She howled with pain.

The words kept repeating in her head.

"Nice b(eyes emoji)bies. Your sex pack too."

Sex pack. S-e-x pack.

Never in all her centuries had she wished she could summon the devil with three sixes. What she wouldn't give to turn back the time and fix her mistakes and her regrets.

It was the poops, she thought angrily, red blinding her vision as she tore toilet paper and wrapped it around her fingers. It was the stains that covered her bottom that also tainted her entire life, ruining her social life. Her idol had seen it. Her unholy three AM hotline bling wet dream. She could never return to him after this… this…. this!

Unworried about her manicured hands—since she would never post a picture ever again—she took the used paper and molded it into a poor replica of Excalibur, punching down his face into a terrible snout and elongating his hands like a yaoi character's close up. She continued to add to the mold, wiping behind before each fold was pressed onto the existing frame.

Arachne had already descended to hell with the little demons that nipped at her heels. There was nothing left for her after the greatest shit show went down. Her tears held the fibers together, and her fingers became more brown as she continued on. Eventually, she ended up with a small sized voo doo doll like figure.

She scooped her cracked iphone from where it landed, waddling back to the toilet as her undies fell further down her ankles. If it was going down, she was yelling timber, she thought as she snapped a shaky photo of the doll, captioning her final post as "The demon that came from within consumes me #excalibur #byefelicia," posting it without a single filter.

And within seconds, she saw a notification.

Excalibur: Noice. (poop emoi)

This is it, this is how she became a villain.

Throwing the phone and the crude doll down the toilet, she flushed it down with the rest of her feces, poker faced. Arachne turned off the fan and didn't bother with the febreeze.

Take a deep breath bitches.


	10. Interlewd

Wes looked extremely proud of his farfetched story, wiggling his eyebrows at Kilik as he extended his arms outwards, waiting for applause that would never come.

He was especially excited to explain of concepts outside of time where aqueducts specifically used for toiletries had been a norm and where devices could be used to communicate in an instant. But such ideas would have had him burned for witchcraft had he not have been reputable for wild tales and unorthodox stories in the first place.

His troop lived on the edge, wondering when the ministry would catch their antics and be after their heads. Wes often assured them, telling them that the authorities wouldn't believe tall tales from bitter, failing bards in the area. It only mattered that they enjoyed themselves in this world full of hidden gems. Nothing else could make them falter.


	11. The Three Inched Glory pt 1

There used to be a boy who loved himself more than anyone else ever could, knowing exactly where his allegiance lies and who he wanted to be. He was powerful, but at one point, all power becomes the downfall. There was a time when he thought that he could withstand any burdens and clear any trials so long as he kept his goal in mind and his heart focused on the prize. Yes, BlackStar knew better than anyone else that he could overcome any hardship.

He was a proud boy, training day after day and night after night, never letting up his regime as he build up his endurance. His pumps were the most powerful of them all, drawing out puffs and moans as he tended to himself with his right hand, the muscles more beefy than the left. It was seasoned, he believed, as it could do him no wrong, drafted for the war at the tender age of twelve, truly a veteran of the masses. But there was another rival in town that day, one more tender than his extension.

His fried chicken.

In the afternoon, one of his most favourite hobbies was to perform his ritual in front of the TV, alone with the volume cranked up and the curtains drawn shut. He would have this moment of peace by himself, left alone for at least three to four hours a day, courtesy of the absence of his roommate as she used the time for her own pleasures. But today, Tsubaki had dropped a bucket in front of him earlier that hour, reminding him to not eat too much lest he has no room for dinner. But no one tells BlackStar what to do, and why else would she plop five drumsticks in his reach unless she knew that this would be the maximum that he was allowed? It was destiny. He peeled off the lid with a few fingers, swiping two legs instantly, feeling the grease coat each his bare hands.

His magnificent sea orbs widened and his mouth was salivating, dripping onto the sofa as Tsubaki said her farewells before going back out again. But he didn't hear her, couldn't hear her as the crunch of crispy skin crashed in his ears, his teeth tearing through the armor of deep fried flour. As the oils spread in his mouth, a moan dragged out from his lips. It was just so good, so delicious.

BlackStar worked at the one in his right hand first, uncaring if he appeared barbaric or otherwise. So long as he loved himself, it didn't matter what others thought of him. It just didn't matter, because the only thing that did was himself. He wouldn't have minded if—

Oh, there was his two o'clock show.

The Antique Show rolled their opening credit, finishing just as BlackStar had reached the meat covered by his filthy hands. Just on schedule, he felt the bulge in his pants growing more and more uncomfortable as his package wanted to be delivered. It twitched once, and then twice as BlackStar struggled to finish the chicken in his right hand, licking the bone and stripping it completely of its contents before moving onto his main show. He threw the leg back into the basket, standing instantly to shove his shorts down while he balanced the other untouched chicken in his left hand.

He felt the release of his three inched glory finally emerging from its constraints, the freedom getting to its head as it stiffened even more from the chill of the air. BlackStar couldn't waste another moment. He immediately gripped his limb of divine completeness and holy perfection, biting his bottom lip as he held in a grunt of ecstasy. The chicken grease transferred from his right hand to his dick, making it glisten from the light of the TV.

What a sight, eh Dmitri?

He caressed it lovingly with the tip of his ring finger, rubbing the side of his shaft up and down, the slickness of the warm oil making it easier to slide skin over skin. The smell of musk and deep fried chicken mixed in the air as the host of the show called the first item to be curated up to the screen. BlackStar threw his head back, squinting his eyes open at the chicken still in his left hand.

Should he wait until he finished one thing before moving onto the other? He struggled to control his hand around Dmitri as he thought about his choice, knowing that with each passing second, his regime was also falling behind schedule. The announcer's voice beaconed him to pump faster, but the fragrance of the oils spurred him to lift the chicken up to his lips.


	12. The Three Inched Glory pt 2

Why not both at the same time?

He began to keep a steady pace with Dmitri the dick, already feeling his high stiffening his movements. It was now or never, he thought as he moved the drumstick in front of his mouth. BlackStar opened his mouth slowly, but then it formed into an "O" when his right hand betrayed him, brushing against a particularly sensitive part on the underside of the head. A gasp escaped from his, and he took a massive inhale, sucking in the fumes of the chicken instead.

"Ugg, this is fowl," he whispered, and then he bit down on the chicken, breaking its skin as the juices ran down his arm, dripping down his elbow and landing on his thigh.

It was like a forbidden river filled of candle wax and lava as the still warm meat slipped down his throat. BlackStar turned the bone vertically, hesitating before he pushed it deeply into his mouth as far as it would go. He choked, pulling out the leg as he coughed out his regrets. But then he tried again, because no man could be fucked by a dead bird. This time, he dug his teeth into it, pulling it out and pushing it back in rhythm with his pumps. It scraped against his tongue, burning him as he struggled to keep up in his nether region.

He always told himself that girth and length didn't matter, so long as the tongue scraping dick can fulfill its duty. If he was going to please a person, it may as well cut time in the bathroom and remove bacteria faster than a regular tongue scraper. But on his mission to make his Dmitri into the veiniest dick, he found that he was missing more than just a swol package.

He wanted to make love with his dick, and the chicken deep in this throat gave him more pleasure than he could have ever wanted. BlackStar was determined to complete his daily quota but also to savor the moment. But which one did he want to finish off first? The chicken, or himself?

Dmitri was having none of it. "Who do you love more, BlackStar," it echoed to him. "Your chicken? Or yourself— me, your divine dick." He almost gave in then, his contents threatening to spill out into the air and onto his meal, but he continued on, bucking in his hand.

It hurt. Everything was moving faster. The light of the TV becoming enhanced by his tunnel vision and the shadows of his lust spreading to the corners.

He loved himself yes, and he loved how his hand can effortlessly satisfy Dmitri—

But just as he approached his climax, he saw the abandoned leg still perched in his hands, a small piece of meat left where he had been gripping the leg.

No. He hadn't had this much love and attention from something since the day he found the creamy texture of pumpkin pie. He hadn't loved himself half as much since the day he shoved the mess down his throat, swallowing each morsel whole. BlackStar gripped his chicken leg, turning it around to suck the last of the tendon. With drool running down his mouth, he gasped out "respect me" to Dmitri, showing it just who was in charge around here.

BlackStar growled out how Dmitri didn't know his side of the story with the fried chicken, how much life and joy he was able to salvage from the godless world with the poultry slipping down his throat. Even before BlackStar was twelve and was acquainted with Dmitri, he'd been fisting chicken since he could chew. They were friends first- more than friends first.

Dimitri was enraged. It had never been betrayed by its own master until fried chicken had come into the picture. BlackStar was supposed to love himself more than anything else and yet-

Swearing vengeance upon the main body, Dmitri drew its pleasure from other sources other than the sensitive vein running through it. The damned dick clenched its owner's stomach and his breathing grew more ragged. It was time.

A moan escaped his lips before BlackStar could chew faster until finally, his seed slid over the chicken grease.

Who was the real winner now.


	13. True Awakenings pt 1

They met at a diner, because where else could you find a lumberjack drinking away his sorrow at one AM. He took a swing of apple juice, smashing the bottle on the ground when he found that there was nothing to trickle down his throat. Before he could spit at the man behind the counter though, a wave of blonde hair fluttered into his vision, draping over his shoulders as a woman leaned forward into his face.

"Think you can pay for these shoes, bitch?"

It was like the angel Anabiel descended from the sea of the heavens, swearing upon her vengeance on his stupidity with lightning crackling at her feet. She shined with an inner light more radiant than the morning sun, fierce as the flash of a flame when his eyes were accustomed to nothing but darkness. It was painful, knocking him off his drunken stupor long enough to focus.

"Move your gun from my neck and maybe then I can see."

God, she was a hell-sent.

Her grip loosened from his collar, shoving him back with the palm of her hand but her aim never faltered. "Witness the damage."

So his bottle wasn't empty after all. The glass itself was shattered over her shins, ripping her sheers into ribbons soaked with blood with fragments embedded in her skin. The red on her shoes deepened from the piss colored apple juice.

Shit.

I guess it matches with your face now, he wanted to say, but it was too great of a lie to tell.

She was a stunner, someone who

This woman was tall, her features sharp and her gaze even more piercing than the sting her nails left on his throat. If her gun didn't get him first, maybe her glare would. It would be a painful death either way. She flicked her hair off her bare shoulders, tilting her chin up and cocking her hip to the side in the laziest fashion.

"Honey if you knew who you were facing, you'd be begging."

"Begging for what?"

He instantly regretted his choice of words when cold metal grazed his temple.

"Your life."

The Angel Anabiel be damned. It was the goddess of the underworld herself who hunted for his soul.

Lady Death, his savior.

A few days later, they met again during a brighter time at the same diner, ignoring the pointed stares from the employees. The lumberjack was usually known as someone gentle, revealing his true personality after carrying Liz in a bridal fashion towards the clinic down the road. This town was too small for modern hospitals anyway. Trees decorated the land looking as if time had stopped for them since the founding of the colonies. They were deep in the middle of nowhere so to speak, so how did Liz end up in that diner with a man oozing with fluffy goodness and rainbow sprinkles?

She couldn't keep a straight face, scowling at him with every chance she could until breakfast had been served.

"I'm just glad that the wounds weren't so deep," he sighed, cutting into his bacon strips delicately with a butter knife.

Liz scoffed at this, bluntly commenting how skin wounds stung much more than flesh. "Think this is all you can do to repay the damage?"

"Medical bills are covered, breakfast has been served, and you'll find your new shoes in the mail on Thursday," he listed. "And I promise to house you until you and your cousin are back on the road."

And he did, going farther beyond the line of duty, his generosity touching her heart where others feared to stay. The lumberjack, while blushing, welcomed her to his cabin in the woods, offering Patty and Liz a place to sleep in the guest rooms and meals every single day. He was like a housewife, one that Liz could return to after a difficult day of robbing tourists and after meeting up with Patty to split the loot, even though Patty paid more attention to furniture than actual priceless jewels.

The dude shaved early in the morning, waking her up when all she wanted to do was block out the world for a few more hours. He sometimes dragged her around town against her will, treating her out to the local bars and other hidden gems, giving her full access to his funds after a moment of contemplation of how much he had, and how little people he could share it with it.

He was the town's sole lumberjack, working with no one else but his trusty chainsaw, caught in his own solitude after a forestry business pulled out of the area, claiming that a spirit had possessed the trees and how moaning could often be heard if you listened closely. It was fairly recent, but still spooking enough to avoid if possible.

Liz wondered how this man could be so… charming.


	14. True Awakenings pt 2

And after spending a night in his bed, she felt a little part of herself ascend, especially waking up to the familiar sight of his chainsaw that he always kept on his nightstand.

Two weeks later—at most—she found that nothing else had pleased her more than the vibration in his chest, shaking her walls until they came crashing down. When he was away tending to the trees, she was left at home, tending to her own forest down below. Liz hummed, sending shivers down her spine and into her fingertips as wetness gathered in just a single spot.

Patty had been nowhere to be found in the meantime, but Liz was sure that her cousin was enjoying the treasure chests that she found in the elderly's homes. Liz faintly remembered how her cousin, who was close enough to be called a sister, had been found in the lumberjack's living room, rubbing a lamp that she named Gertrude over her depths. And how the armchair hadn't been sat in ever since a dark stain had appeared on the cushion.

Somethings were just better left unknown.

In the day that followed, Liz came to experiment with other things after her self-induced high just wasn't enough to satisfy her needs. She heard her prize in the laundry room, the washing machine set on its highest cycle, for how else could the lumberjack clean off the forest grime. Without a thought of hesitation, she climbed onto the cube, settling herself down with her thighs spread apart.

But even that wasn't enough.

"Hey, what's wrong baby?" A gruff voice filled the air. "You've been… off."

"Just some stress, don't worry about it." Liz stole a glance at Genevieve, an excuse to look away from the lumberjack's worried face. "So are you going anywhere tomorrow?"

"Yeah, Genevieve stays home though. Think you can watch her for a while?"

"Your chainsaw? Not like she's going anywhere."

Oh how she was wrong. The moment Genevieve's future changed forever was when the lumberjack left for the weekend, leaving Liz alone with her fantasies. He was gone—now was the time. She cleaned her off first, wiping down the metal of the chainsaw as Liz had done so many times already for her weapons, smoothing down the work until it reflected her lust.

"Let's roar," Liz whispered, ripping the Genevieve's engine to life.

It sputtered at first, unused to a feminine hand. But then it evened out, rumbling, waiting for its work to begin. But it didn't come the way that anyone could have expected, feeling another source of wetness slide over the edge of the handle.

Yes, the devil had tempted her, and now she was paying the price.

Oh honey she has sinned, and her virtue was no longer her own to command for everything that Liz was had now belonged to Genevieve. The curse of the cousins had been strong for if Liz had been playing attention, she would have noticed Patty's own desires towards Ikea furniture, the same as Liz's lust for the willing chainsaw. She may have noticed how Patty hadn't returned home from her last raid in a while, and how she'd stopped going for the meatballs. But that was far from the thoughts in Liz's mind now.

With each pass of the vibrations from Genevieve, she felt a powerful spasm run through her body, arching her back as if she were the bridge to another fantasy- another world. No such machine should have possessed the power to make her buckle like the chainsaw did, and yet- she humped the slick metal and let their oils join in into one lube. It was riveting. It was just what she needed. Liz couldn't ask for anything more as Genevieve came to life under her- so different than the soft body of the lumberjack.

It was what she ever needed, a solid rock in the middle of her turmoil, something to soothe her aching soul with a massage that penetrated so much farther beneath her skin. Yes, it was different than man and flesh that she had indulged in for the last week or so, bless the kind man, but there was a thrill when heat and metal mixed, something similar to that when she shot a gun into her screaming victims and her wild nights she was so used to before.

Darling she was a raging fire and this was only fanning the flames.

But when the precious lump of a man returned home, Genevieve was back in place next to their bed stand and Liz had been locking away the oils, until her next night.

She couldn't lie to the man, for he did nothing wrong and he surely didn't deserve this heartbreak, but it was time to come clean, cleaner than his foreskin folds.

He stuttered at first, unable to speak as the love of his life appeared from the shadows of the bathroom with none other than his beloved Genevieve. Was he to be pleased that they were getting along better than he believed it could be? Or was this jealousy crawling up his neck waiting to steal his calm and snatch away his only peace?

Swallowing the lump in his throat, the lumberjack asked his woman cautiously, "Liz, what are you doing with Genevieve?"

She drew in a breath, her face looking as calm as it did during the first night they had met back when he first spilled apple juice on her jeans and marked himself for deletion. When she opened her eyes, they were just as sharp as the blades on his chainsaw. "Making my way downtown, off to steal your girl."

The chill of the night buried itself within his very bones, sticking out every which way as if he were being impaled by icicles rather than the harsh reality of his world. The pain was immediate, but it numbed him just as quickly as it sank. "Y- You don't mean Genevieve—"

"I do."

It sounded like wedding vows exchanged in a cemetery with the groundskeeper under the guise of the priest, as death would never do them part. Their fate sealed together into their next lives.

"Tell me, did you—did you ever love me? Or was it only for… for Genevieve?"

A jarring laugh pierced him this time as she threw her head back, her arm poised to her side hoisting up the very object they both had coveted. "Was that the question? If I did it all for Genevieve? Darling," she leaned back with her shoulders squared and her legs as shiny as the polish on the saw, "Don't make a fool of yourself. Everything was for me—not a thing belongs to anyone else."

And her heels clicked on her way out of their once upon a time, a fairy tale ending as it should have—in tragedy.

But the tale didn't end there.


	15. True Awakenings pt 3

Liz went on to ruin his entire career after the lumberjack no longer had his partner, his true item of the soul. The chainsaw was vicious under Liz's fingertips, raging on as the bane of the forest, ripping the silence to shreds just as easily as Genevieve would have with wood on a man.

Eventually even that wasn't fast enough as Liz had grown unsated with her lust, growling along with the engine. But she didn't stop there.

After stripping herself of all her clothes and the remains of humanity, she strapped on the chainsaw with only her belt, flicking the safety off and letting Genevieve become one with her in true chaotic harmony. As the chainsaw vibrated against her chamber, she screamed, thrusting into the tree with a new vigor only described as beastly. She was savage, losing her mind to the pleasure of nature, being truly alone with herself as she experienced the forest forever strapped to a chainsaw.

As for her cousin who separated with a lust of her own unsatisfied, that was another tale to behold.

Patty was struck by only what few can describe as wanderlust, rather, it was need to become different than the rest, to be better than those who could only love another human. It ran in their blood apparently as Liz had her own encounters, not that Patty knew. She was the only one with a love for anything inanimate, and with that, she set out on her own journey to find where she truly belonged in the world, unknowingly chancing upon the greatest land of them all in the dead of the night.

It all started with a lamp, and not just any lamp, it was a bell shaped hooded one with a fluorescent light bulb in the dead center. It gave her the attention, the spotlight she had always dreamed. Patty always knew she was different than the rest, and how she managed to show that had been unique in its own. But nothing like that lamp called out to her since the wallet found behind a limo.

She hadn't been in her own home for weeks, having broken into another family's living room in broad daylight from the unholy urge to ruin at least something that day. But when she met eyes with the lamp, she became soggy, like toilet paper soiled in fluids. Gertrude was the gateway to hell, pulling Patty down the path of no return. She needed more— just more.

After raiding the lumberjack's office for a stapler named Helga, Patty realized that her sins couldn't be stopped by anything other than furniture from the greatest warehouse, Ikea. Helga, she whispered, it's not you, it's me. And she left to lock herself in the massive building until her dearest cousin of hers had upgraded to a wrecking ball and rode it into the wall, causing Ikea to perish and for Patty to return to civilization.

It was a beautiful orgy while it lasted, but at least now, Liz saved her cousin, gifting the wrecking ball to her as a break up gift, while Genevieve lived a luxurious life with her new wife.

The girls were out tonight.


End file.
